Applied Sciences
by ohmyloki
Summary: Steve is a homebody, Tony is a genius, and maybe dance clubs aren't so bad after all.


**A/N: Another prompt fic: How about Steve by himself, going to a dance club and seeing a girl he thinks is cute.**

**K, so obviously I really really love Steve/Darcy. So that's what happened here. I was also playing with trying to write present-tense, so I'm sorry if I slipped up here and there. Obviously unbeta'd.**

He can't believe he's here. Why is he here? He doesn't think himself easily swayed by peer pressure but apparently Tony Stark could press with the best of them. Really, though, it's not as if he gave in to_appease_ anyone. He had given in to get the irritating, albeit genius, monkey off of his back.

Which is why he is now standing, very awkwardly, at the corner of the bar in a very loud, swanky nightclub.

But what he really wants is to be back home. It still sends a weird jolt through him when he realizes that he no longer considers the past as home. Home is now holed up in the top of—he still thinks it's ugly but no longer voices his opinion—Stark Tower with the weird ragtag group of assassins and superheroes and an alien that says he's both a prince and a god.

That's where he wants to be.

He wants to listen to Tony talk his ear off about things he doesn't understand—it's comforting because with Tony it's not just Steve that doesn't understand, no one understands—or watch as Clint pesters Natasha with his stupid puns and immature jokes and even though she never laughs, she sees the warm expression in her eyes and a twitch in her lips.

He wants to sit in the big squashy couch and watch meaningless reality television and infomercials with Thor, laughing at how ridiculous people are. That's another comfort, Steve thinks, no matter how much things change, people stay the same. Sure they're a little more public and forthcoming about their oddities and proclivities but Steve likes that. He likes that you don't have to hide everything for propriety's sake anymore.

He wants to be in his room, warm and full of books and _his_ things. It's been awhile since he's had 'things', with the war and then being frozen and all, and there is always a moment, before he walks out to start the day, where his eyes sweep over his walls, the shelves full of his possessions, and a warm feeling sweeps over him.

But he's here, instead. The music is too loud and he can't make out any semblance of melody, the flashing lights are a bit disorienting and he's fiddling with a tumbler in his hand full of liquid that serves no purpose to him. He watches the crowd, the mass of bodies in too little clothing gyrating against one another in what he thinks is a mockery of dancing. A little pang goes through him when he realizes he'll probably never have a chance to get that real dance these days. People don't seem to have time to slow down, to just enjoy slow and meaningful music. They don't enjoy the innocent touches that promised more, the secret, shy glances, or the weight of your partner's hand in yours—

His eyes catch on a familiar mane of brunette hair and he stares. She's moving to the music, dancing alone, and it's somehow more innocent than what the people around her are doing. She looks like she's living in the moment, enjoying the sounds and the lights and just reveling in being part of the crowd. She's not dancing with anyone but he wouldn't say she's dancing alone. She is just… dancing.

He watches as her hips sway, completely entranced by what he's seeing. She's wearing less clothing than he's seen her in around the labs, but she's fairly conservative in comparison to the others in the club. She's wearing the perfect mixture of 'just enough' and 'not enough' to tease him, to make him wonder about what's underneath.

His breath catches in his throat when a man sidles up to her, pressing his hands to her hips, and he's ready to stalk over and remove her from the situation but she seems to have it under control. She turns around, shakes her head and says something to the man that has him backing off immediately, letting himself be absorbed by the crowd. Steve smiles at that, wondering what she possibly could have said. Darcy is quite the firecracker.

Maybe he has a type.

He wonders what she's doing here alone, he hasn't seen her talk to anyone except to refuse that man's advances, and from their conversations—he tried to manufacture an excuse to visit the science labs at least twice a week, always in the hopes of running into her—she seems more the low key, quiet night at home type.

That's when he remembers seeing her talk to Tony earlier that day. He wasn't close enough to hear the conversation, even with his enhanced senses, but he saw the confusion on her face. Tony was animated, clearly trying to convince her of something, when he caught sight of Steve approaching and quickly shut down, whispering to Darcy. She had glanced over her shoulder and then shot Steve a small smile before heading out the door.

The pieces clicked together then. Tony's absolute insistence that Steve go out tonight—not tomorrow,_tonight_—lending him Happy, the ride had been straight from the tower to this club without being asked where he wanted to go. Steve knew Tony was a genius, he just didn't think he paid attention to things that didn't involve him. But apparently he'd identified the variables, worked the equations, tested his hypothesis and managed to conclude exactly how Steve feels about Darcy.

And who was Steve to deny the conclusions of a genius?

He sets his glass on the bar, running a hand down the front of his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles and then makes a bee-line straight to her. She's facing away from him, but when he taps her on the shoulder and she turns around, she doesn't look all that surprised to see him.

She smiles then and asks, "What's up, Cap?"

He holds out his hand and asks, "Want to get out of here?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she says, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her out of the building.

Maybe, Steve thought, he should give into peer-pressure more often.


End file.
